


Tension

by orphan_account



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, TLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:05:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam takes pity on Malcolm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tension

**Author's Note:**

> I think this happens during S3 around the time of Malcolm's speech to Terri about how much stress he's under. Poor baby needs to relax.

Malcolm put his head down on the desk and groaned. He had felt things slipping from his grasp for a few weeks now, and for the first time in years he had begun to doubt his abilities. He felt sick, utterly defeated, and now he just sat slumped forward and let his forehead lie on the cool desk surface, not caring to raise his eyes to the TV in the corner, which was on mute now anyway. He'd had enough of listening to the stream of unremitting nonsense that had spilled from the mouths of the idiots he worked for and the ceaseless drone of journalists and pundits picking over the whole sorry mess on the news channels.

He heard his office door open - oh fuck no, which imbecile wanted their hand holding now over their wrecked career? Footsteps approached, one, two, three, over the carpet and he braced himself, he was going to have to raise his head and summon the energy to give whoever it was both barrels as they surely deserved. Jesus, just fuck off ...

It was a little surprising really, given his reputation, that anyone should brave the lion's den on a day like today - on a night like this, he corrected himself, a Friday night when anyone with any sense would have sodded off to the pub or their home already, blissfully free of the cares that assailed him. He was going to have to spend the whole bloody weekend trying to sort it out. It was even more surprising, however, when whoever it was laid a hand gently on the crown of his head and left it there for a moment, before stroking softly towards the nape of his neck, then doing it a second time.

Malcolm let out a small sigh. By now he really ought to have snapped upright and fixed his basilisk glare on his visitor, and snarled a string of abuse fit to stun a charging bull elephant at fifty paces. He had to admit the touch of that hand was nice though. He'd let himself enjoy it for five seconds more, then give them the full Malcolm Tucker experience ... After ten seconds, he hadn't moved, and the hand was still stroking his hair soothingly. This was getting embarrassing. What if it was that little shit Ollie Reeder? He wouldn't put it past the skinny poxbridge fucker to start coming on to him at a time like this. He'd probably tried it on with lecturers at that bloody lah-di-dah college back in the day when the exam results weren't so good. Or - holy fucking shit, no - please, let it not be the bloody PM himself? Oh God, the party's fucked and it turns out the PM wants a shag, just great. The only thing that could possibly be worse would be if his mystery visitor turned out to be Fat Pat ...

The hand lifted from his head and he heard footsteps move softly away. Well, that was a bloody relief. He was fucking knackered, and to be honest the unexpected moment of tenderness had almost made him feel a little tearful. He raised his head from the desk and buried his face in his palms, pressing his fingers into his eyes until he saw colours swirl, trying to get his thoughts back on track so he could plan what he would do tomorrow - or today, he should say, as it was now after midnight - to mop up the political bloodshed and start burying the bodies. He realised his stomach was knotted with tension. Just 24 hours away from this mess, he silently pleaded, one lousy day of peace ... he hadn't had a proper holiday in years and couldn't remember the last good night's sleep either, now he came to think of it.

He suddenly became aware that the other person had not in fact left the room and was close at hand, and gave a little start as something was put down on the desk by his elbow. His eyes flicked open and he lowered his hands from his face to see a tumbler of whisky, and, biting the bullet, he raised his eyes. It was Sam.

He picked up the tumbler and raised it briefly in a silent "cheers" gesture, before taking a grateful sip. "Och, thanks luv." He appreciated the gesture and fully expected her to leave the room with a smile and maybe even a wink, having accomplished her little act of kindness. But she stayed. She had poured a glass for herself too, and now sat down beside Malcolm in the second visitor's chair, watching him as he sipped his drink and let it warm his stomach a little. She said nothing, but strangely it seemed natural. Malcolm didn't feel like talking - he was sick and tired of words for now, and it was nice to be in the room for once with someone who made no demands, just kept him company as he tried to wind down from the adrenalin-induced nerve-shredding tension he had been prey to all week. His eyes met hers for a moment, and he groaned, "Fuckin' hell ..." They both laughed, he didn't need to explain.

Their laughter broke the slight tension between them, and Malcolm leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. Sam got up and he thought - with a slight pang of disappointment that surprised him - that she was going to leave at last, but she had moved to stand behind him and he felt her hand once again on his head. He smirked lop-sidedly, feeling a little awkward and embarrassed, but he let her ruffle his hair gently before she placed both hands on his shoulders and slid them back and forth for a moment. Her palms felt warm on his skin through the fine fabric of his shirt. She began to squeeze more firmly and to work her thumbs and fingers into his muscles. Malcolm continued to sip his whisky, trying to focus again on a plan of action for the morning, but really, this was quite nice. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him like this. Friends were hard to come by at the day job, you couldn't be alternately bollocking people - especially not women - one moment and having a laugh with them in the pub the next. As for outside the day job, when did he have the fucking time or energy?

Sam moved to his side and glanced into his eyes, as if gauging how he was responding to her touch. He caught himself holding her gaze and breaking into a warm half smile, then chuckling. They made an odd pair, alone in his office in the small hours, not speaking, just revelling in the stillness and quiet. He heard a door close somewhere and the sound of footsteps on another floor. The cleaners, probably, or a security guard making his rounds. He looked at her again - her smile had now been replaced by a more thoughtful look, and she caught her lower lip in her teeth for a second, before lowering her eyes, as if suddenly embarrassed. Her cheeks were a little flushed; Malcolm had never seen her drink before and was somewhat surprised that she had joined him in a nightcap. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly before meeting Malcolm's gaze again calmly, as if resolved upon something.

She drained the last of her glass of whisky and stood; ah well, it had been nice, Malcolm thought, and as she moved towards the door he opened his mouth to say thanks and wish her goodnight, she would be gone in a moment. But on reaching his office door and finding it ajar, she closed it gently and turned the key in the lock, the key that hadn't been used in years and that Malcolm had forgotten existed. She moved to the sofa, picked up the soft throw which lay over it, shook it out and laid it on the floor in front of the desk. Oh Jesus no, what the hell was this? After the week he'd had, he really wasn't sure he wanted to shag his secretary on the office floor. He liked Sam, they made a good team, and he could remember seeing no sign of any infatuation on her part. He wavered for a moment. 

As she approached him again, he murmured, "Look, sweetheart, I'm flattered, but I'm fuckin' exhausted, ye know? I just don't think ..." She put a finger to her lips and then placed it softly on his, and shushed him. "I know, it's all right. Come on, you need this." She took his hand and motioned to him to stand, and he realised with some relief that her manner was practical rather than seductive as she led him from his chair and gestured towards the floor. She tugged at his tie with a little laugh - "Come on, off," and he complied, then raised his hands to the top button of his shirt. His questioning look elicited a "That too, and and your shoes."

He felt ridiculous as he took off his shirt, revealing his narrow shoulders and skinny chest that hadn't seen sun in years, and he was grateful that the room was lit only by his desk lamp. This was surreal, undressing in front of a woman he really barely knew after all, while she watched him, still fully clothed. Under Sam's guidance, he took up a position face down on the floor and pillowed his head on his hands, trying to relax in spite of his puzzlement at what she was up to.

Sam sat down beside him and began to rub his back with one hand, watching his face, still seemingly assessing how he was taking this. Malcolm smiled and let his eyes close; his invitation to her to do whatever she would. He was resolved to just accept whatever came now. He chuckled softly as he imagined someone pounding on the door and rattling the knob, tutting with irritation and indignation at sounds of lusty enjoyment from within. He might as well go out in style. His career was on the skids anyway, why not do the deed - or at least try - if that was what she wanted? She was old enough to make up her own mind, after all.

But for the moment, he was content to focus on the two hands that were now gently stroking his head and on down his back, alternating and keeping up a constant caress, brushing fleetingly over his buttocks and then more firmly down his thighs and calves. He heard a soft rustle and the creak of a floorboard as Sam moved to kneel at his feet. He felt his socks being peeled off, and then his insteps clasped gently but firmly. She kneaded the balls of his feet with her thumbs a little, then raised them to run her fingers gently between his toes. Next, she placed his feet in her lap - he wanted to wriggle his toes against the fabric of her skirt, but thought it might be too indecorous. But then, he gave a startled yelp of delight and laughed, as she moved her circling thumbs to his arches and grazed them lightly with her nails.

"AH, ah-ah-ah, stop!" he giggled, "That's fuckin' too much!" He squirmed, almost trying to crawl away on his elbows, and was suddenly conscious as his hips lifted and twisted against the floor of the weight of his penis thickening and warming against the carpet. He didn't care much now, the laughter was relaxing him and Sam couldn't see anyway, he'd be able to cover himself up somehow if it turned out she was just naively practising massage skills learned in some shitty evening class. He heard her light laughter behind him, then her soft voice, "Come on, calm down now, you're going to get all worked up again." He sighed, stifling a last giggle, and let himself sink back onto the carpet, glad to have let off some steam at least.

He felt her nudge the inside of his knees. He parted his legs awkwardly, and she shuffled up to kneel between them. His breath fluttered a little as he adjusted to the unfamiliar position and how vulnerable he felt, face down with Sam no doubt contemplating his arse, checking him out. He wondered if she could see the outline of his balls through the fabric of his trousers, and tried frantically to remember whether he had ever clashed with her badly enough to deserve having her suddenly grip them and squeeze painfully in an awful revenge.

His moment of fear was soon calmed though, as she laid a hand on each calf and began kneading them, and he relaxed again beneath her touch. She moved lower, and slipped her fingers inside the hem of his trouser legs, tickling him a little with her fingertips. He was less sensitive there and stayed peaceful as she worked, drowsing contently.

There was another rustle of fabric as she moved again. "Legs together," he heard, and then his lips parted and he gasped softly as he felt her weight sink onto his hips. Fuck, was it possible she really had no idea of the effect she was having? His breathing slowed and deepened, and he tried not to think of how good it would feel to turn over right now, and about her pussy - her cunt, for Christ's sake - pressing on his arse as her thighs shifted slightly and her hips rocked as she stroked his back. She was giving him long strokes up to his shoulders and down his arms, bending so far forward to do so that he could feel her breath on his neck. She drew her hands back to his shoulders, traced her fingers over the soft skin of his neck, then circled her fingers lightly in his armpits for a moment before stroking back along the sides of his body, digging her fingers in slightly as if working them into a cat's fur.

Malcolm basked in his arousal, his belly had tightened again, but now the awful tension was replaced by the desire to shift his hips and rub himself against the carpet. Sam moved from her position astride his body and now sat beside him once again, rubbing circles on his back, apparently having completed her work. He was confident he could plead sleepiness, say he wanted to rest a wee while longer. They would say goodnight, she'd leave and he'd give it five minutes before heading to the gents where he could bring himself off in peace.

"Better?" she asked, and smiled. It was the first look they had exchanged since he had first laid down, and her gaze was less sure now. Malcolm smiled back, genuinely grateful in spite of the awkwardness he still felt. He did feel better. Sam spoke again. "Turn over."


	2. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a hard week, Malcolm has enjoyed some time alone with Sam in his office. Just a little more of the story for tonight. :)

With his overcoat buttoned tight against the cold and his scarf wound twice around his neck, Malcolm said goodnight to the doorman of No. 10 and stepped into Downing Street. He smiled a little as he covered the few steps to the enormous iron gates that barred the entrance to the country's most distinguished cul-de-sac, enjoying his secret. He nodded to the policemen on duty before turning right into Whitehall, and headed for Westminster Tube station.

He found himself strolling, almost dawdling instead of marching briskly along in his usual head-down posture. He wasn't ready for the rush and clatter of the Tube just yet; he didn't want the thundering of steel wheels on rails and shrill tannoy announcements to break the spell. He peered up at the sky, trying to see if he could make out the stars beyond the yellow street lights, but to no avail. Never mind, he was practically still seeing stars anyway.

Malcolm should have been confused and bewildered, he had just enjoyed something right there on the floor of his own office that men paid for in shabby upstairs bedsits down back streets. It should have been sordid, but it had been glorious.

"Turn over," Sam had said ...


	3. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of what happened in Malcolm's office ...

"Turn over," Sam had said. Malcolm had been genuinely lost for words for a moment. He had closed his eyes as he rolled on to his back, opening them only once he lay flat, and looking at the ceiling. He knew there was no way now, surely, she could fail to notice his erection. He knew it was straining against his pants and tenting his trousers, and perhaps ... oh God, he might even have leaked a few drops and made a damp spot on his suit. Fuck. He told himself it didn't matter if they screwed now, but he was afraid she would be offended and was braced for her to flee the room.

But he felt Sam's hand again, moving over his chest in broad strokes, around and then over each nipple, letting her palm graze it lightly before moving lower to rub soft circles on his belly. And then - oh shit, the moment of truth - she had set to work unbuckling, unbuttoning and unzipping, and Malcolm had held his breath as she had pulled the elastic of his briefs away from his hips to free his penis. He hadn't been able to suppress a murmur of delight as she had slipped her hands under his buttocks and made him lift up a little so that she could slide his clothes down around his thighs.

Malcolm wanted to move, felt he should be taking charge, and made as if to sit up, but Sam stopped him with a hand on his chest, told him there was no need, he should just lie back and rest. It had been easier said than done, as she had taken his swollen cock in her hand and begun to work it firmly. She had questioned him, coaxing him to dictate the rhythm that he liked, that he needed. She had taken nothing for herself, fully focused on his pleasure, and it hadn't been long before he had achieved his release, coming languorously all over his own belly and groaning loud and long in satisfaction.

*************************************

Malcolm shook himself out of his reverie and headed down the steps into the Underground. As he made his way to the platform, with the sound of his own footsteps echoing on the tiled walls, he thought of Sam and how she had seen his need and given him some peace at last. Somehow, and soon, he hoped, he would repay her.


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam isn't sure quite what she's done ...

Sam felt sick when she arrived at work on the Monday morning. She had hardly slept all weekend, and her face had been pale with dark circles under her eyes in her bathroom mirror that morning. She had done her best to disguise the evidence of her distress with some makeup, but felt no better for it. Her hands had been shaking as she had dressed, sure she knew what awaited her at the office. Even worse, she had missed her train and was going to arrive after everyone else and have to run the gauntlet as she walked in, endure their stares and perhaps even catcalls.

But to her immense relief, there had been no hoots of derision, no slow handclap as she arrived. She had dreaded opening her e-mail, sure there would be a stern summons to HR or one or two crude instant messages, but unbelievably, there was nothing. Sam had put her head in her hands and breathed a sigh of gratitude.  
She had never meant for things to go so far. What the hell had she been thinking? She knew it had been a hard week for Malcolm, had seen him grim faced and tense, ready to explode by Friday afternoon. She could only now admit to herself that she had been attracted to him since shortly after she had begun working there. He had so much vitality for a man of his age, and she had occasionally caught a mischievous twinkle in his eye in lighter moments.

Two days had passed since she had given Malcolm a massage and - oh God - a hand job, for Christ's sake, on the floor of his office. What must he think of her? For all she knew, maybe he did that sort of thing all the time, availed himself of willing women from within and outside of his workplace as the fancy took him, and hadn't given her a second thought. She didn't know what was worse, the thought of him beerily regaling his friends with the sorry tale of their encounter in the pub, or the thought she had been instantly forgotten, no more to him than the tissue he had cleaned himself up with as she had slipped out of the room

She couldn't face Malcolm. If he appeared in the vicinity she would have to remember a meeting, a photocopy needed urgently, a phone call to be made, anything to avoid having to meet his eyes or even be in the same room. It was apparent by now that he had been discreet, at least. That was something. But how long would that last? She didn't want to live in fear of him letting something slip over a working dinner or at a boozy cocktail reception and it all coming out. 

Sam's mind was made up. She opened up Word on her screen and composed a brief letter, stating her intention to resign with immediate effect to take up an opportunity elsewhere, blah, blah, blah. She printed it, signed it, and set off to photocopy it in case there was any trouble later. She would leave it on the desk in HR and slip away at lunchtime. She no longer cared if she lost her last month's pay, she would manage somehow.

She was standing at the copier, fiddling with the touchscreen display, peering at it through tears, when she realised Malcolm was beside her. "Is it playing up again?" he asked cheerfully, and gave it a thump with his knee. "Oh no, not at all," she whispered, "Look, I've got loads of copies to do, you can go in front of me if you want, I'll come back later ..." and she turned to flee. Malcolm grabbed her wrist impulsively and pulled her back. "Aw no, luv, what is it? What's the matter?"

Sam couldn't speak. He made as if to put an arm around her, then seemed to think better of it and beckoned to her to follow him back along the corridor to his office. He had no sooner closed the door once they were inside than someone knocked. Malcolm opened the door, motioning to Sam to position herself out of sight, and told the visitor that he wasn't available, something important had come up.

Having got rid of the intruder, Malcolm put his hands on Sam's shoulders and peered anxiously into her face. "I'm no' trying to be funny, darlin', but you look terrible," he said softly. "Who's upset you like this? Come on, tell me. I'll skin 'em alive for you!" he grinned, trying awkwardly to cheer her up. Sam shook her head, still afraid to speak. "Sweetheart, is this ..." he trailed off, and seemed to be searching for unaccustomed words. "I haven't forgotten what you did for me." Sam felt herself calming down a little. Actually being in Malcolm's presence with the matter out in the open wasn't as bad as the dreadful anticipation of it. Whatever he said now, it would soon be over.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, "I'm really sorry. I'm leaving, I'll be gone this afternoon." "Why on earth -" Malcolm's eyes darted over her face. "Oh God, you've been suffering haven't you? You're not going, not because of Friday night? Come here." He put his arms around Sam, and she laid her head gratefully on his shoulder as he rocked her to and fro, resting his cheek on her hair. "Jesus, if I'd known ..."

She realised she was still clutching her letter, and Malcolm took it from her and glanced over it, then ripped it in two and dropped it in the waste paper basket. "You don't have to go anywhere, you know." His voice dropped to a whisper: "Unless you want to, of course."


	5. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not updated this in quite a while, but people seem to have been finding their way to it lately, so here's a bit more!

"You're shattered," Malcolm said, "The first thing we need to do is take care of you." He grabbed a couple of files and a notebook from the desk and shoved them into Sam's hands. "Follow me," he muttered, and threw open his office door, setting off down the corridor at a brisk pace. Sam trailed in his wake, her head spinning. She caught up with Malcolm, and he fell back to walk beside her. "Here's what we're going to do, OK? Let me do the talking. We're looking for something on the PM's computer, or on a data stick, he's not sure which, that he's left for me. He wants it found, and that's what we're doing."

They moved swiftly along corridors, up a couple of flights of steps, through doors until they were at the top of the building. Malcolm produced a set of keys - Sam was surprised he had them - and unlocked a door, nodding to the security guard sitting on a chair outside. She followed Malcolm through the door and he closed it behind them, and said, "Right, you're going to bed."


End file.
